


A Brief Inquiry Into the Bouchard-Lukas Marriage

by Zombiebarnes



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Everyone flirts with Martin, M/M, The phrase strong arms is used at least twice, Vignettes, feral jon, gratuitous descriptions of elias's thighs, not spoiler free
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:14:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22960768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zombiebarnes/pseuds/Zombiebarnes
Summary: Elias juggles work and his relationship, the rest of the archive staff juggle Elias.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Martin Blackwood (implied), Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Peter Lukas/Martin Blackwood (implied)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 107





	A Brief Inquiry Into the Bouchard-Lukas Marriage

The Magnus Institute- an esteemed organisation dedicated to the study and documentation of paranormal events- was a small, unassuming building sandwiched between a law firm and an office block complete with jarringly modern architecture and more custom made glass panels than The Shard. The building itself was a small, white bricked structure with a black door and two bay windows framing each of the three floors. From the windows on the top floor of the institute, the view was disappointingly characteristic of London, a large percentage of it comprised of the slurry that streaked the banks of the Thames. On a good day, you might see a nice boat, or someone walking a particularly noteworthy dog. In a way, being hidden in plain sight, watching the world pass by was fitting for an organisation dedicated to serving an omnipotent power devoted to, or ‘that thrived on’ observation.

Those who worked in this building often joked that the lax security was more than compensated for by the ominous vibes that surrounded the place in swathes. Everything about the institute felt off, skewed, somehow. The stairs to the archive entrance were accessible from the street - a long, black, winding staircase which descended far deeper below ground than seemed logical. The heavy, owl shaped door knocker had a perpetual devilish glint in its beaded, emerald eyes. Even the windows seemed tinted with something foreboding.

The only indication that you’d arrived at the institute was the circular English Heritage plaque on the right-hand side of the door which read, in a bold, white text ‘The Magnus Institute was established here in 1843’. The plaque had been a recent addition, brought in only after the head of the institute had kicked up something of a fuss about the institute deserving more recognition.

Elias Bouchard had been the head of the institute since the death of his predecessor in 1996. A stroke of good luck for him, as it turned out. While he had spent several years working in an office on the first floor, Elias had never particularly excelled as a filing clerk. What he was excellent at, however, was telling other people what to do and how to do it. He supposed that he enjoyed the power more than the work itself, which wasn’t always especially fulfilling. Still, a creature of habit at heart, the copious quantities of paperwork and mountains of HR regulations more than fulfilled his thirst for bringing order to the chaos that the institute had become in recent years. It was one of his greatest regrets that he had no power over the archive itself, especially since discovering how badly the previous archivist had neglected her duties. 

The institute employed a number of staff, though only a small handful had the good (or bad, depending on who you asked) fortune to work directly with Elias, who more often than not preferred to push papers from behind his desk than take statements and interact with the public. Jonathan Sims was the newest head archivist. A tall, willowy, slightly sinewy man with the worst moustache Elias had seen in quite some time, and a mop of untidy dark hair. Jon often looked as if he hadn’t slept in months, but at the very least he was a proactive and conscientious archivist. Elias might go so far as to say he had something of a soft spot for the dishevelled young man.

Martin Blackwood, Timothy Stoker, and Sasha James were the archival assistants, with Martin being the newest addition to the staff. If Elias was being honest, he far preferred every one of them to any of the clods that Gertrude had hired during her time at the institute. They were all well behaved, polite, and with the exception of the archivist, they all at least  _ pretended _ to respect his authority. One of the flaws of the typical sorts of people who applied to work at the Magnus Institute, however, was that they tended to be… nosy, to say the least. If you weren’t curious about the machinations of the world, it was unlikely that a fairly routine position involving lots of paperwork and paying only slightly above minimum wage would have the staying power of a higher paid position in a more exciting location. No, Elias liked for his employees to have dedication to the cause- after all, it was what Jonah would have wanted for the institute. His grand vision.

***

It was a lovely, bright Thursday afternoon in Chelsea. While the archives weren’t exactly a good place to soak up the sun, Martin always enjoyed knowing he’d emerge from the basement and feel his cheeks warmed by the first sun of spring. Occasionally, if you stopped to listen, you could faintly hear the birds chirping in the distance. Martin loved working in the archive, but sometimes he couldn’t help wishing for a desk by one of the big windows upstairs. He’d like to people watch- even though people generally tended to cross the street in a valiant effort to avoid the Institute.

It had been a busy week. Jon had recorded something close to a hundred statements, and was insisting on follow up for each and every one of them. Generally, that meant he was more terse than usual, and Martin often suffered the brunt of it. That morning had been spent traipsing from police station to police station, and waving both his credentials and, where that failed, the credentials of Elias and Jon, around to gather information. He was sure Jon didn’t know how hard it was to convince police officers, of all people, to do something they didn’t feel inclined to. He hated coming back empty handed, but sometimes it was the only option. He’d reluctantly returned to the institute with a list of crossed off names and, predictably, Jon had made his displeasure quite clear.

The only thing that could have made his day worse, however, was having to deal with his other obnoxious boss.

Elias had sent him an firmly worded email requesting that he pay a visit to the office immediately, and breezily implying that things might take an unpleasant turn for him if he failed to attend. Martin didn’t like Elias, exactly. That wasn’t to say he hated him, either. He just…gave him a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. Still, the fact of the matter was that Elias was in charge, and by extension, Martin didn’t have a choice  _ but  _ to go when he was called. He knocked sheepishly on the door, and was greeted by Elias’s stern voice. A deep timbre that made him feel like a victorian child asking for permission to enter his father’s study

“Ah, Martin. Do come in.”

Even sat down, Elias was a little intimidating. Where Martin was soft, Elias was well defined. Where Martin had bright, blonde hair, Elias was dark, greying around the sides. Martin tended to be nervous, while Elias was always so bright and steadfast in his resolve. He motioned for Martin to take a seat on one of the plush antique armchairs which sat in front of the desk. Martin watched as he folded his glasses away, tucking them into the breast pocket of his perfectly tailored three-piece suit. He almost felt scruffy in comparison to how well turned out Elias always appeared. 

“Thank you for attending on such short notice, Martin. I’m afraid you’re here to fulfil something of a personal...request, shall we say.I hope I haven’t dragged you from anything especially important,” Elias paused midsentence, waiting for Martin to shake his head in acknowledgement. He smiled, a jarringly charming, tight-lipped expression that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He steepled his hands against his chin as he spoke “Excellent. You live in the area, correct?”

“Uh, I- yes. Yeah. Sort of,” Martin nodded, deciding it was better not to correct him on something as trivial as geography. Islington wasn't exactly in the  _ neighborhood _ but he felt he knew the area well enough. 

“I need a dinner recommendation.”

Martin was taken aback. Dinner? Who would Elias, of all people, be taking to dinner? Martin wasn’t sure whether he was married, and he’d never mentioned any friends or relatives, even in passing. His brows furrowed together as he looked at the man in front of him. Elias waited patiently for his response, not seeming to tire of Martin’s open-mouthed gawping.

“Well, I suppose that depends what sort of d-“

Elias cut in uncharacteristically in the midst of his sentence.

“It’s my anniversary. My partner insists on engaging in assorted nonsense every year, even though I keep saying there’s little point to making a fuss about it. It’s been, well…a long time, suffice to say. What sort of couple go on dates after that long? It’s ridiculous, frankly. And what am I to do, buy a  _ card?  _ Chocolates? No, no. Dinner will have to suffice this year, I’m far too busy.”

It didn’t seem like Elias was looking for input on his romantic woes, especially, in spite of the manner of his enquiries. Martin regarded him awkwardly. Nodding in the right places until he was finished with his tangent.

“I didn’t know you were…in a relationship,” Martin said. Elias laughed, bringing a hand down to rest on his own, well muscled thigh.

“Oh, I’m  _ so  _ sorry to disappoint, Martin. As  _ delectable _ as you are, I’m certain I’d be scolded if I were to initiate anything, let alone take part.”

“That’s not what I m-“

“No, no. we’re getting off topic. A recommendation, please.”

***

It was a Friday afternoon at the Magnus Institute, in late September. Sasha usually brought her lunch in from home, unwilling to trust the dubious slop served in the cafeteria. Still, Tim had asked her to come along for moral support. Mostly to growl at members of staff who worked upstairs, she suspected. Today she was spearing pasta out of a Tupperware container with a pair of chopsticks while watching Tim flirt with the servers in the vain hope of getting a slightly bigger portion of whatever dirt flavoured, starch based dish they were serving. They’d even managed to convince Jon to put his tape recorder down and join them for something bigger than the pumpkin spice Frappuccino that Martin had all but poured down his throat earlier that morning. 

Sasha didn’t like the cafeteria. The overhead lights were uncomfortably fluorescent, casting everything under them in a clinical white glow, which just so happened to make the food look even less appealing. The people had a bad tendency to gawp like they’d never seen an archivist with a B12 deficiency induced by spending 90% of their time in a damp underground library dedicated to ghost stories. Not to mention, occasionally they tried to  _ speak  _ to her about work. Jon sat opposite her, head buried in a statement, far too busy to pay much attention to their surroundings. Sasha watched as he attempted to pour milk into his tea, instead pouring the contents of the little porcelain container directly onto the table. She let out a heavy sigh, propping her head up against her chin.

That was when Elias sat down opposite her with a tray of something unspeakable- not that he seemed to notice. She regarded him awkwardly, a strand of pasta hanging out of her mouth as a moment of silence passed between the two of them. Elias had made an uncomfortable habit in recent months of joining his colleagues for lunch, delighting in the fact that it made absolutely everyone around him feel the need to shower under blisteringly hot water. In typical British fashion, every single member of staff decided they would rather not mention it.

“Uh. Can I help you?” She asked, a little awkwardly.

Elias laughed. It wasn’t a particularly musical sound, or even something that sounded comforting. He never sounded genuinely amused, it was more often a sound that resembled mirth, and she couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable around it.

“Can’t I take a spot of lunch with one of my favourite employees? You’ve been doing just an  _ excellent  _ job as of late, especially you, Jon,”

Jon looked up upon hearing his name, recoiling instinctively as he was met by the face of the slimiest man in the institute, who just so happened to be clad in a grey turtleneck. The corners of Elias’s mouth twisted up into a vague approximation of a smile as he began to tuck into his lunch. His phone buzzed three times in a row, and he closed his eyes, nostrils flaring as he reached into his pocket to retrieve his blackberry. Sasha’s attention was caught by the unbridled show of irritation, something which usually evaded Elias, not to mention the fact that he was using a phone that had last been popular in 2009, at best.

Sasha peered over his shoulder, taking note of his background. The picture appeared to be of two people, one being very obviously Elias. The other figure, obscured by his thumb, was kissing him on the cheek. The two of them appeared to be on a beach, if the reflection in his sunglasses was anything to go by. At first, she was struck by the absurdity of the idea that Elias Bouchard would be caught dead in swimming trunks, let alone on a beach holiday somewhere warm. He just seemed like such a stereotypically British sort of guy. The sort who only visited holiday resorts in Greece and refused to eat anything other than bland English cuisine while he was there. She imagined he'd say something like, "why should I try anything else? I might not like it."

Elias met her eye as she looked up, pretending she hadn’t seen anything (she assumed she’d be safer that way), and he rubbed a weary hand across the nape of his neck, before standing dramatically.    
“So sorry to cut our lunch short, duty calls,”

***

It was a Monday, a typical day at the office, as far as any day at the Magnus Institute could be described as typical. Elias lived in St James, in an imposing three-bedroom house. He much preferred to be surrounded by history and in the midst of the hustle and bustle as opposed to the relative isolation of somewhere outside zone 5, much to the disappointment of other people in his life who had insisted on having both soundproofing and triple glazed windows (“to keep the heat in- its economical!” he had argued vehemently). The journey took closer to an hour, but the commute offered a wonderful opportunity to people watch, a long-developed habit of his. He particularly enjoyed sitting next to people on the tube, as unwittingly discovering their secrets was just the kick he needed to start his morning.

On this particular Monday, Elias had awoken irritated, hearing the alarm go off nearly an hour later than expected. He hadn’t had time to stop for a coffee, and the tube was so crowded that he’d had to stand for the entire journey. His key card had failed to swipe him into the building, and he’d had to buzz through to reception, where Tim was waiting patiently to speak to him- not the first thing he wanted to be confronted with.

Timothy Stoker was tall, with an athletic build and a haircut Elias could only have described as somewhere between the 14-year-old boys who hung around outside the corner shop and asked him to buy them cigarettes, and that of an incredibly generic pop star. He was plenty friendly, and his demeanour was largely pleasant, though Elias wasn’t sure what had compelled him to apply for the job in the first place. Tim was leaning against the reception desk when he finally passed through, rifling through a women’s magazine and flirting with the receptionist. As Elias offered her a grimace, and handed over his key card, Tim looked up.

“Morning boss, you’re running late, something keep you up last night?” his grin was wolfish, and he followed him to the bottom of the stairs.

“Nothing you’d be interested in,” Elias responded, checking his watch.

“Right, well. I wanted to get you to approve some holiday for me. I mentioned it last week?”

“Fill in the forms and leave them on my desk, I’ll let you know if we have the week available.”

Tim nodded, and moved to head off, until he caught sight of something that stopped him in his tracks. Elias’ ring. He wasn’t sure if he hadn’t noticed it before, or if it just hadn’t been there. Did Elias get married over the weekend? It seemed unlikely. He wasn’t really the type to be impulsive. He was roused from his thoughts by a sharp, irritated tone.

“Is that all, Tim?” Elias asked, swiftly returning his hand to his pocket.

Tim nodded, motioning in the direction of the archives, before scurrying off.

***

It was rather a surprise to the rest of the team when Tim burst through the door at exactly 10.03, so violently that you wouldn’t be mistaken for thinking it was about to fall off the hinges.

“TEAM MEETING,” he shouted, so loudly that it would be difficult to ignore him.

Jon emerged from his office, yawning and rubbing his eyes whilst shovelling frosted flakes directly from the box, into his mouth with a voracity that should be impossible at best, and illegal at worst. Jon looked very much like he hadn’t slept in a month. Martin and Sasha rounded the corner at the same time, Sasha looking slightly put out by the whole affair.

“What is it, Tim?” Jon asked, rubbing a weary hand against the nape of his neck.

“Do any of you know who Elias’s wife is?” Tim asked excitedly, a gleam in his eye.

The team regarded one another with quizzical glances. Wife? None of them had ever suspected Elias to be the sort to have a girlfriend, let alone a wife. He wasn’t an unattractive man, but he was middle aged, and his demeanour was off-putting enough on its own. He wasn’t exactly friendly, and they couldn’t imagine him making small talk with his in-laws.

“Elias? I didn’t know he was  _ married _ …” Martin offered, his brows furrowing together for a brief second before his eyes widened, and he raised a finger as if to speak. 

“What brought all this about, exactly?” Sasha asked.

“Come on! He’s a man, why is everyone so surprised that he’s married? He still has to get la-“

Jon cut Tim off before he could finish his sentence, raising a hand to indicate that he shouldn’t go any further, as if the withering glare he shot in his direction wouldn’t have been enough on its own. 

“I think that’s enough, Tim. The last thing any of us need is to think about is our boss’s intimate activities. Besides, if we’re speculating, who’s to say he has a wife at all?”

Tim recoiled a little at the thought of having anything in common with Elias.   
“He was wearing a ring! Maybe the gender doesn't matter, but there's no way he **_isn't_** straight. All I’m saying is that he has a secret spouse that none of us know about, and I’ll testify to that. It makes sense!”

The group exchanged looks. Martin was the first person to speak, shortly followed by Sasha.

***

It was a relief to hear the door close behind him. Tim was the most obnoxiously curious of all the new archival assistants, and if there was anyone Elias didn’t want snooping around in his private business, it was one Mr. Stoker. He sat down at his desk, finally able to relax away from the prying eyes of the staff members who seemed to see right through his carefully constructed disguise.

Elias’s personality wasn’t the only careful construction. His office was one of the largest rooms in the institute. It had previously been used by both James Wright and much earlier, Jonah Magnus himself. It had seemed appropriate to redecorate with each of his iterations, lest he arouse the suspicions of any of the institute’s less involved members of staff. The walls were lined with shelves of heavy, leather bound tomes. Or at least they appeared to be leather. One could never be certain these days. The room was bare, except for his desk and the two plush, red armchairs on either side of it. The desk itself was an ornately carved, dark wood. The only things on the surface were a large, blocky computer and a set of well organised stationery, lined up exactly along the edge of the desk. The minimalist décor allowed him more mental space to watch over the institute.

Elias worked reliably for a few hours, ignoring the constant vibration of his phone. Last night’s argument had been especially vicious, originating after his companion had refused to wash the dishes, citing his sexuality (“You can’t force me to do the washing up, darling. I’m the trophy husband”) as one of the main contributing factors in his reluctance to do any household chores. He was sure that any notifications would only be an attempt to slither back into his good books by offering sexual favours. Well, Elias was determined that his partner stew a little longer. It would do him good to remember who was in charge.

1 ‘o clock finally arrived, and after a full morning of gruelling work, listening in on people’s conversations and considering what advice he would give them if he were the sort of person who was inclined to be even slightly helpful or accommodating, Elias decided it was far past lunchtime. It was only when he realised that the Tupperware box he’d packed the night before wasn’t, in fact, in his bag, that Elias felt a sense of dread begin to settle into the pit of his stomach. He reached for his phone, unlocking it to see a stream of 30 or 40 messages, the most recent reading:

_ “ _ MR LUKAS <3- 12.30”

_ Darling, sweetheart, light of my life, fire of my loins- you forgot your lunch. Shall I bring it to you?” _

***

“What do you mean he asked you for dinner recommendations?” Tim asked incredulously.

“He said it was his anniversary! I didn’t think it was worth mentioning.” Martin protested, crossing his arms over his chest with a small shrug. “It’s normal to go out for your anniversary, isn't it?"

“Personally, Tim, I think you’re the only one who had a good lead to go on. I can’t believe you’re blaming  _ Martin  _ when you had him cornered and you didn’t even ask,” Sasha called from across the room, leaning her chair back on two legs, her hands braced against the side of her desk.

“Don’t you start! You saw a picture of his wife and you didn’t think I’d be interested in that? I love office gossip! It’s the only reason I’m still here! Elias is the only enigma left in this place since the two of you are such sticks in the mud and talking to Jon is like having a conversation with a clever AI,” Tim huffed out.

There was a moment of silence before Sasha spoke again.

“So, what do you think Mrs. Bouchard looks like, then? Fiver says Elias likes a blonde.”

Tim rolled his eyes, dramatically throwing himself backwards into his chair, and swinging his legs up onto the desk. He narrowly avoided knocking a stack of statements off as he did so.

“No chance. My vote is on ginger. Bet she’s got a rocking figure, too.”

“You’re delusional, Stoker,”

“Yeah? Well, at least I’ve had a girlfriend.”

“ _ I’ve _ had a girlfriend!”

***

Martin was heading out to lunch, finally. His stomach had been protesting its emptiness since 11, and he had finally managed to escape Sasha and Tim’s bickering long enough to take an order from Jon and head out. He had decided to patronise the small café around the corner, Bean, he thought he remembered it being called. It had a friendlier atmosphere than the cafeteria at the institute and the ingredients were probably more trustworthy. He attempted to wave goodbye to the receptionist but was stopped before he could reach the threshold.

“Uh, Martin. Could you do me a favour?”

Martin sighed internally but forced a smile as he turned around. “Absolutely. What is it?”

She motioned to a man who had seemed to appear out of nowhere. Martin hadn’t even noticed him standing there until he was pointed out. He frowned. The individual in question was tall and slim, but strong. He had close cropped, greying hair, and a short, neat beard that didn’t do much to disguise the sly grin that lit up his features as he leaned forwards and offered him a wave. The man wore a pair of dark trousers, well-tailored, and a thick, auburn cable knit jumper. He was handsome, Martin had to admit, even if there was something a little cold about his expression. He clapped a hand on Martin’s back, a hard and sudden movement that made him stumble.

“W- who’s this?” he asked meekly.

“Uh, Mr. Lukas, was it?”

The man nodded.

“Mr. Lukas, he’s here to see Mr. Bouchard. I tried to call Rosie but she's apparently not answering this morning. I don’t suppose you’d be able to show him up?” she asked hopefully.

“Well, Martin, is it? Would you like to lead the way, my dear?”

Martin shivered, a feeling which ran the entire length of his spine as Mr. Lukas’s hand dipped down to the small of his back, and an icy feeling spread through him. He gestured towards the stairs, not quite managing to choke out the words caught at the back of his throat. Mr. Lukas winked at the receptionist, who gave the two of them an uneasy smile as they left.

“Have you worked here long, Martin?” Lukas asked, seemingly confident and easy in his ability to make conversation.

“Just a few months- in the archive at least. I think I started working here at the institute in 2010? I started in the library, actually," Martin responded, subtly putting some distance between himself and Elias’s gentleman caller.

“A few months? Ah, wonderful. It’s an excellent place to work!”

“It’s fine, yeah. I hope you don’t mind me asking, Mr. Lukas, but what did you say you were here for?”

Peter’s laugh was musical. In spite of how uncomfortable and…isolated he made him feel, Martin thought it seemed nearly warm. It was certainly friendly, and perhaps even genuine.

“I didn’t,” He responded.

“Right. So, what  _ are  _ you here for?”

“I’m bringing Elias’s lunch, of course. Now, no more questions. Elias dislikes it when I play around with his employees, so I’d rather not have to send you somewhere unpleasant,” He paused, turning towards Martin, and subsequently pressing him against the railing in the tiny stairwell. He grinned, a hand grazing Martin’s cheek. “Especially considering that you’re so….well, you know.” Martin swallowed, feeling uncomfortable trapped in the space between Lukas’s strong arms.

Martin had never been so glad to hear Elias’s dulcet tones as he was at that moment. The older man stood at the top of the stairs, one hand resting on the bannister, the other tucked into one of the pockets of his immaculately pressed suit trousers. One leg was crossed in front of the other. The look on his face was something Martin could only describe as somewhere between irritation and affection.

“Peter,” he called, immediately catching Lukas’ attention. Peter’s face softened, and he took a step away from Martin, very much behaving like a child who’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“Elias,  _ darling _ . I was just getting to know one of your lovely archivists,” he smiled, motioning to Martin, who was still straightening himself out, clearly jarred by the experience. His hair was mussed up, and his glasses perched on his nose at an odd angle.

“I know exactly what you’re up to, and I’d thank you kindly to stop,” Elias all but growled, a flash of something not too dissimilar to jealousy in his eyes.

“And I’d thank  _ you _ kindly to be a little nicer to the love of your life. I mean, honestly! I came all the way here to bring you lunch and all you do is complain. I don’t know why I bother,”

“I didn’t ask you to do anything of the sort,”

Martin cleared his throat. He was uncomfortable marinating in the tension that passed in the space between the two men. Clearly he was intruding on… well, something. Even if he wasn’t entirely sure what that something was. Both men turned to look at him, their heads swivelling in unison.

“Do you mind if I, uh. Leave? I was just going to get lunch a-“

“Yes, yes. Very good. Off you go, Martin,” Elias answered, narrowly resisting the urge to roll his eyes as Martin hurried away in the opposite direction.

He was glad to get away from Elias, let alone what he assumed was Elias’s equally awful husband. As he got to the archway which signified the entrance to reception, he made the mistake of looking back, just to check they hadn’t killed one another in the interval. The two men had taken several steps towards one another, Elias still one step higher. He looked amused at Peter’s attempts to intimidate him as the taller man jabbed a finger into his sternum, and he laughed. The conversation quickly grew heated, until Elias grasped two big handfuls of his sweater, and pulled him in for a heated, aggressive kiss. The point at which Peter’s hand started to stray below Elias’s waist was the point at which Martin decided it would be best to leave them to their own devices.

When Martin returned an hour later than he was supposed to, visibly shaken, Jon would collect £20 from everyone working in the archives for successfully predicting that Mrs. Bouchard would, in fact, be a Mr.


End file.
